


imperfect boys with their perfect lives

by irishmizzy



Category: Jonas Brothers
Genre: Drugs, Incest, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishmizzy/pseuds/irishmizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick starts to feel like he's sinking, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	imperfect boys with their perfect lives

**Author's Note:**

> Oh God, this is so very Not True. No disrespect intended, and remember: drug dealers are dorks, don't even talk to them.

The first time Nick ever walked in on someone snorting coke in a backstage bathroom, it took him a few seconds to process what was going on. He saw the drummer from the band scheduled to go on after them bent over the counter, the bassist standing next to him, and when it all finally clicked, Nick ended up frozen in the doorway.

The drummer straightened up and glared at Nick when he said, "Hey, you wanna shut the door there, pal?" Nick did, took a full step into the bathroom and let the door swing shut behind him. He kept his hand on the doorknob and to this day he doesn't know why he didn't leave, but he went in there to get a minute of quiet before the show, and then he pretended like everything was normal. Like it didn't even phase him.

They didn't say anything else to him, but he saw them watching him in the mirror, following the movements of his hands as he smoothed them along his shirt, tucking the dog tags under his collar.

"It's been a long --" the drummer started to say, before the bassist interrupted him.

"He gets it, man. Come on, look at him." He jerked his head in Nick's direction.

Nick was a little insulted, because what was that supposed to mean? Did he look like someone who understood why people did drugs? He'd never met these jerks before and if anyone got to be judgmental it was him, because he wasn't the one purposefully killing himself.

The drummer smacked his bandmate upside the head. "Don't be an asshole." He smiled apologetically at Nick. "Ignore him. We've had a... long year."

Nick smiled shakily and nodded. "Yeah," he said, because he could sort of understand. This was their sixth show in as many days and they were staring down another month of this scheduling. He lived out of a van, spent the day reading his Social Studies book while they drove for eight hours. It felt like a long year, even though it was only February. But he wasn't complaining. Things were going to start coming together for them soon. At least, that's what Dad said. Nick didn't really care as long as they kept playing.

The drummer smiled again, bigger this time, and for a second Nick thought the guy was going to reach out and ruffle his hair or something, but he didn't. He turned around and bent down again, real close to the counter, and Nick hadn't meant to stare, but he couldn't help it. When he was finished, he braced both his hands on the counter and Nick could almost see all the tension drain out of his spine. He was momentarily jealous; Nick couldn't even remember the last time he felt relaxed.

The drummer opened his eyes and looked at Nick in the mirror and smiled, all teeth and shiny eyes. Nick smiled back reflexively.

"You want a go?" he asked. Nick blinked and blushed. Someone was offering him _drugs_. He remembered all the nine thousand talks from his parents and that commercial from when he was a kid, the one with the girl smashing her kitchen up with a frying pan. The drummer cleared his throat.

"Uh, no thank you," Nick said, shaking his head. God, it was so unreal. Joe was never going to believe it.

Someone banged on the bathroom door just then and Nick practically jumped out of his skin.

"Yeah, we know, three minutes. Calm the fuck down," the bassist yelled, cleaning up the counter like he had all the time in the world.

The drummer sniffed loudly, wiped his face with his hand and grinned at Nick again. "Good show, yeah?" he said, clapping Nick warmly on the shoulder. They left him standing there, shell-shocked, for what seemed like forever.

That night, Joe laughed when Nick told him the story. "Shut up, it's not funny," Nick said, whispering so they wouldn't wake up Kevin who was asleep in the other bed. "It was..." He didn't want to say scary. He wasn't a baby. "It was weird."

Joe knelt on the edge of the bed, his body all shadows in the dark room. "Come on, Nick," he said, "it's a little funny." He tried to poke Nick in the ribs, but he got his hip instead. Nick squirmed away and Joe collapsed in the vacated space. "That's so crazy. I can't believe they offered you some." He took a deep breath and kicked the covers to the foot of the bed. "What'd it smell like."

"I don't know, it was far away."

"Did you want to do it? Like, maybe a little bit?"

"No," Nick scowled. "I'm not _stupid_."

"Just checking." Joe reached out and patted Nick's leg, his fingers curling around Nick's thigh, warm even through his pajama pants. When Nick looked over, he could vaguely make out Joe smiling up at the ceiling.

"Do you think I should tell Mom and Dad?" Nick asked after a minute.

Joe thought about it. "Nah," he said eventually. "They'd just freak out and then we wouldn't be allowed to go to the bathroom alone anymore. And you know how I need my alone time."

"_Joe_," Nick groaned, rolling his eyes.

Joe laughed and rolled onto his side. Nick's leg was cold where Joe's hand had been. "I can't believe you got offered drugs. No one's every offered me drugs." Joe sounded strange, like he was a little jealous or something. He reached out to push a strand of hair off Nick's forehead and jokingly said, "Aww, my baby brother's all grown up."

"Shut up. And I'm not the baby," Nick said, shoving Joe lightly. He shoved back and they tussled for a minute, throwing elbows in the dark until Joe threw his arm over Nick's waist and buried his face in a pillow.

"Seriously, Nicky, don't worry about it," Joe said after a while. "No big deal." His voice was slow and sleepy.

"Yeah. No big deal," Nick echoed. He couldn't stop thinking about it, though. It felt kind of like a big deal.

And it still feels kind of like a big deal, even now that they're world famous. Sometimes, right before they're due on stage, in that moment of quiet that comes when they're independently psyching themselves up, he catches himself thinking about that gross bathroom in Minnesota. And even though it was like four years ago he remembers everything so vividly -- the graffiti on the walls, the way the lights had been extra bright. The drummer's smile, how happy and calm the coke made him, and then how kickass his performance had been that night. Nick had watched them from the wings, unable to turn away even when Dad came over and told him it was time to leave.

"He's good," Dad had said, his arm around Nick's shoulders. "A little sloppy, but good. He looks like he loves to play. Just like someone else I know." He smiled when he said it though, so Nick hadn't taken it too personally. He just made sure to tighten everything up at their next show.

It's weird, but it's just one of those things that sticks with you, he figures. Just another one of those things.

**

These days Nick can't remember a time when he wasn't bone-tired, when he didn't have to wake up at 4:30 in the morning just to spend the next fourteen hours smiling.

This week they're in LA, and the only reason Nick knows that is because they've spent the last seventy-two hours being shuttled from one talk show to another, with photoshoots and meet-and-greets crammed in between. Everywhere they go they leave a trail of paparazzi and screaming girls, people shouting their names, asking them about stuff that's not even relevant anymore. He has this permanent ringing in his ears to match the eternal state of exhaustion.

There'd been a reporter with them in the car this morning, condescendingly asking the same questions everyone asks, about their rings and what they mean, about how they like being permanent fixtures in the tabloids these days, about if they even cared that they lost the Grammy last year or that their new album was almost universally hated by the the critics, does that even matter to them since their fans are still there, proposing marriage and trying to steal their underwear. Nick had dug his nails into the leather seat, not even bothering to smile while Kevin gave their stock answer about being in it for the long haul, not letting things get them down, being brothers means we'll never break up. Nick had silently seethed through it all. Of _course_ they care, what kind of horrible question is that? What does she think they'd say, "Oh, no, we couldn't care less about what people think about our actual music. We're just in it for the girls." Come on. That's, like, the opposite of why they're here. It's ridiculous.

Now, sitting in their dressing room backstage, he can hear the fans screaming themselves hoarse from all the way back here. The headache's already starting to set in. Someday he wants to play a concert that they don't have to announce on their website, something where no one's shrieking drowns everything out and he has to play by the count, straining to hear anything even through his earpieces. Except, that's a horrible thing to wish, because they wouldn't be anywhere without their fans. Or they'd be somewhere, but it'd be in the Bloomfield Cafe with a bunch of soccer moms silently wishing they'd shut up so they could drink their coffee in peace.

Nick sighs and leans forward so his forehead's resting in his hands. It's not that he doesn't appreciate his life or anything, it's just that lately when he's onstage it feels mechanical. He focuses on everything being technically perfect, because if he stands here and plays this note and sings that line and winks right now, then everyone will scream and that's a good show. Just so long as the fans like it. It doesn't matter if it feels like he's just going through the motions.

It used to be that before a show he'd get a rush of adrenaline so intense he could feel it all the way from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers and it wouldn't go away until well after they'd finished, when he was lying in bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling so he could fall asleep. Those tours were the craziest, best years of his life, eating and sleeping and breathing the shows. And it's not that he doesn't get pumped anymore -- he's pretty sure the day he stops loving the music is the day he stops breathing -- it's just that it's tempered now. And more like a tension headache shooting from the base of his spine into the back of his skull. More and more he finds himself thinking about that drummer and how he looked so relaxed, his eyes so bright, and the way they killed their set that night, jumping around the stage like they'd never even met a tired person in their lives, like the music was enough to keep them going for the rest of the year. Nick used to feel like that. He wonders if he'll ever feel like that again.

"You okay?" Kevin asks, jerking Nick back into reality. He rests his hand on the back of Nick's neck; it's cold, like he's been outside, or was holding a Red Bull. He studies Nick for a minute and then sighs. "Hey, don't let it -- just try not to think about it, you know? I mean, listen to that," he points to the TV monitor where the house band is playing to fans already holding up MARRY ME KEVIN signs, "and not, you know, idiots."

He doesn't get how Kevin just lets that stuff roll off his back, but he nods anyway. Kevin squeezes his neck reassuringly. Nick looks up and forces a smile. Kevin sees right through it. He doesn't say anything else; just rolls his eyes and pulls Nick into a one-armed hug. It doesn't make him feel any better, though.

**

It's the same thing at the next venue, and the one after that. Nick starts to feel like he's sinking, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.

**

They're at the House of Blues again, the one in San Diego this time, gearing up for the type of intimate show that are usually Nick's favorites. But tonight he's exhausted from another round of shitty interviews, another day spent on a bus, and he really can't bring himself to get excited. It doesn't help that it's loud backstage, everyone else's energy building as they wait to go on. Joe and Kevin are sitting on the couch next to him, playing slaps and laughing. Nick had wanted to run through the harmony for "Jive Talkin'" one last time, but Joe had slugged him in the arm and told him to chill out. He can't stop going over it in his head, his hands moving in his lap as he silently runs through the chords.

"Dude, stop freaking. We'll be fine," Joe says. Nick looks up and Joe's not even looking at him, he's focused on Kevin's hands hovering under his. "How many times have we practiced it? Like, every day since forever, practically."

Which is true, but Nick doesn't think it's enough. "I just don't think it's ready," he says. They tried it at sound check and it had been sloppy. Real sloppy.

Joe chuckles and looks up at him. "So what? No one's even going to notice, Nicky. Who cares if the song isn't exactly right? It's for _fun_." He grins at Nick and the crack of Kevin's palms on the back of Joe's hands makes Nick wince. "Ow! Shit, Kev. You can't do it when I'm not paying attention."

"What? That's exactly when I'm _supposed_ to do it."

"Is not, cheater."

Kevin slaps him again and Joe responds by punching him in the arm. Kevin yelps and lunges for him, struggling to throw him into a headlock. Nick stands up, trying to avoid getting an elbow in the face. He stands there and watches them, annoyed. Sure, they're covering it for fun, but that doesn't give them a right to do a crap job. If anything it means the opposite.

He sighs loudly. "I'm going to the bathroom," he says, turning on his heel.

"Mom's in ours," Joe says, his voice strained thanks to Kevin's arm around his neck. Nick shrugs and heads for the communal one down the hall. Over his shoulder he hears Joe say, "What's with him? _Ow._ What the fuck?"

"Don't curse, Joseph," Kevin says, and then the door swings shut and Nick can't hear them bickering anymore. Thankfully. He hates how he's annoyed all the time lately, like he needs more and more time alone so he can stand being with people. He doesn't know when his own brothers became people he needed a break from, but he doesn't know when a lot of things changed, does he?

All the bathrooms at these smaller venues are the same, poorly lit and heavily graffitied, and when Nick pushes the heavy door open he he sees two guys at the sinks and it's déjà vu. Only this time Nick doesn't freeze in the doorway. He nods at the guys as he walks all the way in.

"Hey, man," one of the guys says, and he bends back down to his coke. Nick recognizes them from the band that had been playing when they got there.

The guy catches him staring and grins. "It's good stuff," he says. "Do you --"

Nick shakes his head and the other guy laughs. "Sure? 'Cause it looks like you could use it, buddy," he says, just as the first one, the one who offered him some, makes vague chicken noises.

Behind him, one of the stall door swings open and a girl walks out. She's tall, way taller than Nick, and he can clearly see a guitar pick tucked under the strap of her bra. "Aw, leave him alone, you fuckers. He doesn't have to do anything."

Nick blushes and fidgets with the cuff of his shirt. He thinks of the gleam in the bassist's eyes and the way the drummer had rocked the hell out of his solo, flailing limbs and pure awesome energy for three straight minutes, and then he thinks about losing the Grammy and their record getting slammed and he just wants to not care about that stuff while he plays, just for once. And when the kid who can't be much older than Joe is holds out the straw he'd been using, Nick does the worst thing he can think of: he takes it and, hands shaking, does the line.

"Alriiiiiight," one of the guys -- oh God, these are _strangers_. This is so _stupid_. But he regrets it all a second too late -- says as Nick snorts. The girl pats his back, her hand sliding down his spine as he stands up.

He doesn't feel any different, except for the burning in his nose and how his heart feels like going to pound out of his chest. He looks at his reflection; he doesn't look any different either.

"Nice," the guy says, patting Nick on the back. They're all smiling at him and his heart is racing and oh God, he still has a show to do.

**

His fingers feel weird at first, clumsy, like he's playing with the wrong hand, and Kevin gives him a look when he messes up three separate times during "S.O.S." Nick feels like he's going to have a panic attack and forget all the lyrics to songs _he_ freaking wrote. He can't even remember what set list they'd agreed on, he keeps checking the paper taped to the floor, keeps checking his hand on the fingerboard, making sure he's not ruining everything. He's never had to concentrate this much on playing, never worried so much about ruining everything they've worked so hard for.

His voice keeps cracking, his mouth so dry it's hard to get the words out, and he's sweaty, sweatier than usual -- he knows it won't be long before Joe gets a close look and realizes what's up. God, one split-second decision and he ruined everything. He fucks up another chord and curses under his breath. How could he be so stupid?

But then all of a sudden Nick stops feeling like he's going to pass out and instead it's like his heart is trying to sync up with the music. He's playing the hell out of the Bee Gees and it's awesome, he can feel the music in his blood and Joe pressed up against his back, his arm slung around Nick's neck, and then Nick's killing his solo and Joe's dancing away and Kevin's sliding into his space, bumping Nick with his shoulder, grinning at him, and the crowd is singing along, and this is what Nick missed, the excitement. It's like the rush he used to get every night from performing, but a million times better, like every inch of him is vibrating.

They come off stage and he throws himself at Joe, yelling nonsense into his shoulder. Joe's got a hand threaded through Nick's hair, pressing against his skull. "Awesome," he says, his voice so low Nick can barely hear it. "Fucking awesome." He presses a quick kiss to Nick's temple, and then Kevin's running towards them, his arms held over his head, the three of them laughing and jumping all over each other and it feels so fantastic, like he's standing behind a waterfall and everything is rushing past him, loud and powerful and overwhelming and _awesome_.

That night he's so wired that he can't fall asleep, his heart still racing as he stares at ceiling of his hotel room, trying to match his breathing to Joe's while the beginnings of another headache build at the base of his skull. He twists his ring around and around, tells himself he's never going to do it again. When their 5:30 wake-up call comes, he still hasn't fallen asleep.

**

He doesn't do it again. There's no reason to take everything he's worked so hard for -- _they've_ worked so hard for -- and just throw it all away. The headache and cotton mouth and the way Mom had fussed over him all day, bringing him juice and asking if she needed to call the doctor were bad enough. He doesn't need to be the next Disney disaster, the next Lindsay Lohan or whichever one had a drug problem. He's supposed to be better than that.

But still. For a long time it's the first thing he thinks about whenever he picks up a guitar, this sense memory that hits him like a sledgehammer: the way his throat had tasted so bitter and his heart had raced and then how, without warning, he'd felt like everything was perfect.

He spends concert after concert chasing that feeling and then he starts to worry he's never going to find it again.

**

The worst part of all is that lately their bad shows outnumber the good ones. It's not bad enough that people notice, though there've been more than a few reviews calling them "lifeless" and "uninspired" and "disconnected." It's mostly little things, like how Dad's on the phone all the time, talking quietly and seriously and frowning a lot. How the rest of them are snapping at each other, complaining about things they never used to complain about. The wear and tear of touring is getting to them a lot quicker this time around, like the combination of sleep deprivation and constant togetherness and relentless press is too much too handle.

Nick always thought it would get easier as they got older. It really sucks that it's not.

This time it's Joe who's pissed -- at Nick, at Kevin, at the world -- for whatever reason no one knows. After sound check he storms away, stalking off through the underbelly of the arena and Nick's too tired to deal with it; he just lets him go.

Joe's no better later, when they're all sitting in the dressing room waiting to go on. "Goddammit, Nick," he yells, pushing Nick's arm away when he tries to get him to talk about it, "Can't you just give me some fucking space?"

"You know what?" Nick says, "I just --" He looks at Joe, who's ignoring him, eyes locked on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "Whatever," he says. "I'll see you on stage." And with that he walks out out of the room. He doesn't even get the satisfaction of slamming the stupid door; it gets halfway there before the mechanism kicks in and it slows, softly clicks shut. God, he can't even storm out of a room right these days.

He walks aimlessly down the hallway, silently fuming. He doesn't know when their solution to everything became "storm off in a huff," but here they are. He hates it. He's ashamed of how awful they're all acting and feels guilty for being the one who wanted this the most, the one who pushed them all to get here. For a second he thinks about turning around and going back inside but he just can't right now. Maybe in a few minutes. Maybe he should splash some water on his face or something.

When he finds a bathroom he pauses right outside. There's all sorts of laughing through the door, someone's talking a mile a minute, shouting about how awesome it is to see? Be? Something Nick can't make out, but it doesn't matter. He's ninety percent sure he knows what's going on in there and he knows he should just turn around, go back to the dressing room and sit down on the couch next to Joe and wait. Joe's probably over it by now, anyway, bouncing around the room, trying to convince Kev they should scratch "Tonight" and play "Gravity" or something.

Then again, he thought Joe would've been over it hours ago, so what does he know.

"You going in?" someone asks. It's the singer from their first opening band, Benji or Bentley, something stupid with a B. They're new, joined the tour about a week ago and all Nick knows is they're three guys and a girl from some school in Rhode Island or somewhere, a bunch of preppy kids who all talk really loud and laugh really hard all the time. They never hang out with them because they're usually gone by the time the Jonases do anything. The only time they see them is around sound check time, bouncing around and wearing their sunglasses inside like a bunch of tools. But they always look happy, which is more than Nick can say for himself.

"Come on, then," Bradley -- that's his name, Bradley -- says. He pushes his sunglasses up and bounces on the balls of his feet. He's grinning and Nick takes a deep breath before he twists the knob and opens the door. He's not surprised by anything he finds inside. He's actually kind of relieved when one of the other guys offers him a rolled up bill. Nick takes it without hesitation.

**

Joe pulls him in right after their first song and yells, "So rock star!" right in his ear, close enough that his lips graze Nick's skin and he shivers. Nick catches Joe's eye and they're both grinning like nothing else matters. Kevin starts the intro to the next song and as it builds Nick can feel Joe's hand tapping the rhythm on his collarbone and his lips are numb and in that moment he really feels like a fucking rock star.

**

After that night, it turns into a thing. A routine, sort of. He finds a reason to duck out of their room and when he comes back, he's ready to go. He hangs out with Brad and the rest of the band a lot, laughing and joking during sound checks, high fiving them in the hallways after they finish their set. Every once in a while Kevin will give him weird looks because of it, but he lets it slide because Joe's high fiving them too, his laughs bouncing off the concrete walls. On those nights, Nick feels like he's coming back to life.

The days are harder, though. He's tired and achy all the time, and grouchy enough that eventually Joe stops hanging around him and goes to torture Frankie. Mom worries that he's getting sick. She keeps buying him packs of tissues to keep in his suitcases, his bunk, his pockets. He rolls his eyes and tells her he's fine, sucks it up and smiles for the fans and counts the hours until he's back on stage.

**

"I swear to God," Bradley promises. Nick bites his lip and Brad chuckles. "C'mon, buddy, have I steered you wrong yet?"

Nick looks at the lines cut on the mirror, straight and tidy, waiting for him. It's twice as much as he's used to. They're gearing up for a small show -- a short set, songs they love to play instead of things everyone expects, in and out in forty-five minutes, and Nick's hesitant to do so much if they're leaving within the hour. But last time he barely made it through three songs before he was crashing, tired and sore and starving, like he could eat an entire pizza by himself. He looks at the coke again and then shrugs. Brad really hasn't steered him wrong.

"Good man," Brad says, patting him on the shoulder. Behind him, D starts catcalling and before he knows it the whole room's clapping and hollering. Nick sees himself roll his eyes in the mirror, his face divided into sections by the coke.

Fifteen minutes later he's waiting in the wings to go on and Nick's pretty sure this is the greatest he's felt in his life, better than the first time they got nominated for a Grammy, better than their first real show, better than anything ever. He wraps an arm around Joe, presses his chest against Joe's back and leans over his shoulder to look at the stage.

"Oh man, oh man," he says, "Are you kidding me? Check out those drums!"

"They're the same as earlier," Kevin says slowly. "When you practiced on them."

Nick ignores him. He pulls away from Joe, steps between him and Kevin and bounces on the balls of his feet. "God, guys, I think we should play -- oh man, do you think we could do 'Baba O'Reilly?' What about, what about, remember the first time we did 'Superstition' live? God, that was the greatest, wasn't it? Remember how everyone loved us? What if we did --"

Joe reaches out and grabs his elbow, stilling him. "Chill out, Nicky." He punctuates it with a shake of the tambourine and Nick's eyes widen.

"Dude, oh my God," he says. He bounces on his feet while he waits until he's sure he's got Joe and Kev's full attention, because this is literally the greatest idea he's ever had in his entire life. "What if I play the tambourine tonight? And you play all my parts?"

Joe laughs and looks at him like "did you hit your head recently?" Nick reaches for the tambourine, but Joe pulls it away.

"C'mon," Nick says. "It'll be _amazing_."

"Yeah, keep dreaming," Kevin says, ruffling his hair. Nick shakes his head, feels the curls bounce off his forehead. It feels weird. He does it again, and again, and misses the look Kevin gives Joe.

The stage lights go out and Joe squeezes his elbow. When the crowd screams, Nick's heart swells.

**

When he plays, everything else drops away and he feels like he's in flying, that's how on he is -- how on they are -- that night. Every single inch of him is hyper-aware of the music, the way the stage is vibrating under his feet, the sharpness of the strings digging into his fingers, Joe's arm around his shoulders, everything. It's electrifying.

Joe leans into him again and Nick thinks about how Joe is the best thing in the world, literally the best. Kevin's great, too, but Joe's greater. The greatest. And if he weren't here, Nick wouldn't be either. He turns his head and looks at Joe, his face so close that Nick can see the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, his hairline. He could count all Joe's eyelashes if he wanted.

Joe pinches him and Nick jumps. He shakes his head and blinks rapidly.

"What?" he mouths. Joe's jerking his head and Nick doesn't get what he wants him to do. Dance? Come closer? Move away? He shakes his head. "What?" Joe pinches him and glares at the Nick's guitar. Suddenly, the music comes back into focus and oh shit. He has no idea what he's supposed to play right now, has no idea what song they're even on. He makes up for it by riffing for three minutes, rolling with whatever flies from his fingertips.

The crowd loves it, screaming and screaming while he plays, while Joe sings, screaming for the rest of the song. When it's over, they start chanting his name and Nick can feel it rumbling in his chest, all their voices gathering right underneath his ribcage and lifting him up. He grins and just plays, turns to Kevin and leans back and the two of them play together, Joe cheering them on in the background, his voice louder than everyone else's.

The crowd's still chanting when they leave the stage.

**

The ride back to the hotel takes forever. Nick's never had a high last longer than a show but tonight it is just not fading. And the thing is, he doesn't care. Joe keeps touching him, pressing his knee against Nick's or glaring at Nick while he drums on the seatback and God, Nick just feels so _awesome_ that he can't sit still, no matter how many times Joe grabs his hand and pins it to the seat.

"Come on, Joe," he says, pulling his arm out of Joe's grasp and tapping his fingers on Joe's leg, "you have to admit, that was unreal. It was, like, the best we've ever played. Did you hear them?" Nick echoes the chants from earlier, starting out low and gradually getting louder until Joe's face splits into a grin.

"Alright, fine, it was fucking awesome," he says.

"Yeah, it was!" God, Nick feels like he could play an entire set right now, an entire fucking awesome set. He wonders if there are any places open this late that would let them play. There's gotta be somewhere. This is -- where are they? Philly? New York? Boston? He squints and tries to read the signs out the window, but they're moving too fast. It's like they're driving at warp speed. When they were in Germany they drove at warp speed, on the autobahn. It was terrifying. And _awesome_. Wait. Are they in Germany? No. Nick knows for certain that they're in America. Well, he's ninety percent sure.

They pull up to the hotel. Nick smiles and flashes a million thumbs-ups to the paparazzi waiting for them. Joe eventually grabs onto his sleeve and drags him along the path Big Rob's carving for them.

It's dead quiet in the elevator, completely opposite from the flashes and yelling downstairs. Nick shifts from foot to foot and watches as the button for each floor lights up as they go past. Ping! Six. Ping! Seven. Ping!

"Okay, stop it," Joe says, clamping a hand over Nick's mouth. "Ping! Six. Ping! Seven," he mimics. "What are you, five?"

Nick frowns and then licks Joe's palm. Joe winces and promptly wipes the spit all over Nick's face.

"Gross!" Nick yells, pushing Joe away. He scrubs his face on the front of his shirt. Joe cackles and lunges at him again, sending them both flying into the wall, shaking the whole elevator car. The doors slide open and they race down the hall, shoving each other and laughing the whole way.

"Seriously, what is with you?" Joe says as he fits the keycard into their door. He holds it open and Nick ducks under his arm.

"I don't know," he says seriously, before taking a running leap and throwing himself face first onto the bed. Joe laughs and jumps next to him. Nick groans when he gets a knee in the kidney.

Nick gets a little dizzy when he tries to sit up, so he flops back onto the bed, arms and legs splayed. Nick's heart is still racing, all keyed up and nowhere to go, the rush of adrenaline and coke and everything else that'll keep him awake until three again. Joe's still laughing and it reminds Nick of all the nights they've spent in hotel rooms, jumping from bed to bed, overtired and giddy. Paris and London, Dusseldorf and Detroit and that motel in Minneapolis, everything all blended together into a string of sleepless nights.

Joe stretches out and kicks at Nick's leg, interrupting his thoughts. "You're like twitchy tonight."

Nick bounces his heels on the mattress; he can feel the reverberations all the way up his spine. "It was a good show!" He turns on his side so he's facing Joe. "Didn't you think so? I thought so. I thought we poned."

The entire time he's talking, Nick's painfully aware of Joe watching him, like some staring contest that Nick missed the start of. Joe's so intent that Nick forgets what he was saying. He licks his lips and Joe does the same and Nick's insides feel like they're buzz buzz buzzing when he leans in and kisses Joe.

Joe inhales sharply and they're both incredibly still for a moment before Nick leans in and kisses Joe again. This time, he kisses back, lets Nick press him into the mattress. Nick's mouth feels numb and it's weird, but nice. Familiar. Like everything he missed is coming back together again. Like even though Nick's brain is going ninety miles per hour, Joe's here, slowing things down, his hand solid on the back of Nick's neck, anchoring him.

It's slow and lazy, the comforting slide of Joe's tongue against his, and Nick never wants to stop. He's dizzy from it all, from the electricity sparking from his fingertips as they skate down Joe's side, the heat radiating from Joe's body. When they break apart for air, he kisses Joe's neck, slides his hand up Joe's thigh and palms his dick through his pants. Joe shifts his hips and groans softly. But when Nick undoes the button on his fly, Joe slides his hand from Nick's neck to his chest and pushes him away. He leans back into the bedspread and tries to put space between them. His voice is gravelly when he says, "I think... I think it's time for bed."

Nick chuckles and grinds against Joe's hip. But Joe's not kidding, and he turns his face away when Nick tries to kiss him again. "Wait, what?" Nick says. He's still chuckling a little, confused.

Joe pulls the neck of his t-shirt up and wipes his mouth. He's looking at Nick weird, a little sadly, and just. Weird. "Seriously," he says, pushing at Nick again. He pushes until Nick moves back enough for Joe to slide out from between Nick and the bed. He crawls into his own bed then, with all the lights on, his contacts still in, and curls away from Nick.

The air conditioner kicks on and it's deafening.

**

In the morning, Joe's gone.

Nick finds him in Kevin's suite, the two of them sitting at the table with their heads close together. When Nick walks in their heads snap up and they stop talking immediately. Great. Nick rolls his eyes and helps himself to some eggs and toast and bacon from the room service cart.

He has his back to them but that doesn't mean he can't hear them elbowing each other and whispering.

"I'm right here, guys," he says plainly. The whispering stops. Nick slides his plate onto the table, in the empty space across from Joe and Kev. It's a round table, but somehow they've managed to sit on the same side. Joe's stacking cubes of cantaloupe on top of each other and Kevin's pretending to watch him. Mostly he's watching Nick, which. Whatever.

Nick ignores them. He's starving. He's halfway through his second helping when Joe clears his throat. Nick bristles and panic starts to set in. _Shit_, he thinks. _Shit shit shit_. The throbbing in his head gets worse.

Joe clears his throat again. When Nick refuses to look up he says, "Uh, Nick, are you, um. Are you feeling okay?"

Nick nods. Kevin says, "Because lately, you've been, I don't know, kind of... weird."

"I'm fine, okay? Just. Just stop."

"Hey," Kevin says quietly, calmly.

"We're just WORRIED about you, Nick," Joe says, rising out of his seat, infinitely less calm. "You've been so out of it lately and we're fucking _worried_."

"Well don't be," Nick says. "I mean, I really appreciate you ganging up on me and all, but I'm fine." He stands up, tosses a half-eaten piece of toast on his plate. "And the next time you guys want to talk about me? Maybe have the conversation somewhere where I won't WALK IN in the middle of it."

Joe's palms are flat on the table, elbows locked as he leans forward. He looks so angry, angrier than Nick's ever seen him. Kevin's pulling him back down by the shirt.

"Nick," Kev starts to say, "we're not ganging up on you, we're --"

Dad comes in right then, a whole crew of people behind him. He sighs when he sees Nick. "Nicholas, why aren't you dressed yet?"

"I was just leaving," Nick says, glaring at his brothers.

"Well hurry up, you have to leave in thirty minutes," Dad says. "Come on, let's go."

Nick nods and quietly apologizes to Dad as leaves. Joe tries to follow him but Dad tells him to stay where he is and then he starts listing all the things they have to do in the next few hours, days, whatever. Nick suspects Dad has the rest of their lives plotted out in thirty minute blocks of time.

He feels like he's going to hurl the entire walk to his room. It takes all his concentration to keep putting one foot in front of the other. When he gets back to his room, he stands in the bathroom, staring at the mirror, thinking about how angry Joe was. _Shit_, he thinks. _Shit shit shit shit shit_.

**

Joe doesn't talk to him for the rest of the day, which is fine by Nick because he spends it feeling like shit. He's starving and nauseated and sore and miserable, and trying to smile for reporters is only making it worse. When they finally break for lunch, Mom's hovering on the edge of the room looking real worried. She takes him aside and makes sure he drinks extra juice and smooths her fingers along his back while he checks his levels. She frowns when they come up normal.

"I don't know, Nicholas," she says, running her hand through his hair. He has to bend down so she can kiss his forehead. "No fever." She frowns again, says, "If you don't perk up, maybe we should think about canceling the show tonight."

Nick stands up straighter. "I'm fine, Mom. Really. I'll check again after I eat, but I'm fine." She doesn't really look convinced. "It's probably just a cold, or maybe I ate something weird at breakfast," he says. "I'll let you know if it gets any worse. Promise."

She sighs and between Mom worrying now and Joe and Kevin this morning, he feels like the worst person in the world. "Alright," she says, nodding. "But if you even --"

"I know." He nods. "I will."

He goes back to the shoot and makes a conscious effort to be more engaging, and that night when they do the concert, he doesn't even think about getting high. He just grits his teeth and bears it and does it sober. It sucks.

**

Three shows. That's how long he makes it. The entire time he's a zombie on stage.

Ninety minutes before the fourth show, Dad sits them all down and tells them to pull it together, that people aren't paying an arm and a leg to see them sleepwalk through their concerts. They're all in the meeting, but Dad's only talking to Nick.

"I know you're tired. I know it's hard. But you boys are better than this. Whatever it takes, I don't care," he says, "just get. it. together. Preferably before tonight."

"Yes, sir," they say. Dad smiles and pats Nick on the shoulder as he leaves.

They sit in a silence for what feels like a lifetime, until Joe says, "Hey, I think I saw some abandoned golf carts on the way in."

He and Kevin leap out of their chairs at the same time and Nick trails behind, Dad's words echoing in his head. _Whatever it takes_.

Nick checks his watch and smiles to himself. He jogs a little to catch up to his brothers.

An hour later, he tosses the wiffle ball they found to Kevin and says, "I'll be right back." Kevin nods and when Nick turns around, whips the ball at his back. It just misses him, smacking into the wall and bouncing back at Joe instead. They're laughing as he walks away, and Nick's excited. He feels like it's going to be a good show. A really good show.

**

Nick walks into the bathroom saying, "When are you jokers gonna get a real dressing room?"

"Whenever you upgrade us to your _only_ opening band," D yells. He smiles, and the rest of the guys are smiling and laughing, yelling things like "Welcome back, Mister Prez."

"We missed you, buddy," Brad says, slinging an arm around Nick's neck. His eyes are bright, his hands a little shaky, and Nick's heart rate increases with the sheer anticipation of it. He grins and pulls out his wallet, hands Brad some cash and then concentrates on rolling a twenty tightly. At the counter, D's cutting lines already, singing Clapton under his breath and motioning Nick over.

"Good show tonight?" D says, stepping back, letting Nick slide into the space he was just occupying.

"Always," Nick says. He rolls the bill between his fingers once, eyes the neat rows of powder.

"All yours," D says, gesturing. Nick takes a deep breath, exhales quietly, and then bends down, inhales again. _Good show_, he thinks.

"Hey, Nicky, you in here? We're waiting for --"

Nick freezes the second he hears the door open, but it's too late. He straightens up and turns and there's Joe, practically paralyzed in the doorway. The bill unrolls a little in Nick's hand and he gets this horrible, horrible feeling, like he's going to be sick.

Everyone's yelling at Brad, calling him a fucktard for not watching the door. They all sound really far away though, like it's happening in a different hallway. Nick sniffs once, twice, and reaches for the counter to steady himself.

"Close the door, Joe," he says, his voice low and even. He can feel the coke starting to kick in. The back of his throat burns and this time it doesn't feel good, it's the worst feeling in the world, and Joe's staring at him and he's not moving, he's just staring at Nick like that time he saw Nick all laid out in the hospital bed, tubes in his stick-thin arms. Nick blinks, wipes under his nose with the back of his hand and Joe fumbles with the door and leaves. Shit.

**

Joe doesn't talk to him. At all. During their set he throws his arm around Kevin, who looks confused and then sad and then happy again, all in a split second, and Nick can't stand it. It's like a gut punch, only a million times worse. He keeps glancing over at them, at the way they're leaning into each other during all the parts Joe usually leans into Nick and it feels like he can't breathe. He starts to get lightheaded, blinking in the lights, his skin clammy. He keeps missing notes too, like every fifth chord is wrong, and this is. This is so fucking messed up. Joe barely _looks_ at him all that night; he doesn't touch him, doesn't say anything, it's all nothing, nothing nothing nothing. All of a sudden, the flying feels just like falling.

Backstage after the encore Kevin hugs him tight, both arms wrapped around him tighter than ever before. "Nick," he whispers, and Nick's heart sinks.

**

Kevin puts his arm around Nick in the hotel elevator, like he's worried Nick won't be able to make it down the hallway without help. Like Nick isn't sobering up, like he hasn't been crashing since the second Joe walked into the bathroom. He lets Kevin walk him to the room though, with Joe three steps ahead of them, his back straight as a rod, fists clenched at his sides. He uses his foot to hold the door open for them instead of turning around; Nick's pretty sure Joe hasn't even looked at him since the show ended.

Once they're all inside, Kevin deadbolts the door and leans against it. Joe's sitting on the foot of his bed, staring at the floor. Nick doesn't know what to do, or say. He stands there for a minute feeling helpless, like his feet are glued to the floor. Kevin eventually steps forward and nudges him toward the bathroom. Nick shuts the door behind him and sits on the edge of the tub. He can Kevin and Joe talking softly; he moves closer to the door to make out what they're saying, but he can't. The TV clicks on and everything is muffled. They're talking about him, though; that much is obvious.

He sits on the edge of the tub and drinks three glasses of water before he musters up the courage to face them again, and even then he considers spending the night in the bathroom.

When Nick comes back out, Joe's already in bed. He's got a sweatshirt on, hood pulled up over his face, so Nick couldn't even see him if he weren't turned toward the wall.

Kevin looks from Nick to Joe and back to Nick. He sighs softly, and the way he looks at Nick is brutal. For a second, Nick's glad Joe's ignoring him, because if Joe looked at him like _that_? God. Nick thinks he'd rather die.

"Kev--" Nick starts to say, but Kevin holds up his hand.

"Just. Sleep it off," Kevin says softly. Joe shifts and Kevin puts his hand on Joe's ankle, stilling him even through all the blankets.

Nick nods and shuffles to his bed while Kevin turns off the lights and the TV. Nick's bed feels huge and cold; the room is too dark and too quiet. Nick's heart won't stop racing and his brain's still a little fuzzy but everything that used to make him feel better just feels wrong now. When he closes his eyes he sees Joe frozen in the doorway to the bathroom and he feels sick. God, he really effed _everything_ up.

**

He doesn't know when he finally fell asleep, but he must have, because he wakes up with a massive headache and light streaming through the windows. There are hushed voices coming from the suite's living area, whispers mixed with the quiet clanking of silverware on plates.

Kevin tiptoes into the room, carefully carrying a mug of coffee. "Oh, hey, you're up," he says when Nick pushes himself into a sitting position. Nick nods and gratefully accepts the coffee. "And, uh, there's breakfast. When you're ready." He rests his hand on the top of Nick's head and Nick waits for him to say something, anything, but he never does. After a minute Kevin just leaves, shuts the door carefully behind him.

Nick's starving and knows he needs to go eat something, but he's not sure if he's ready to face Joe. This sucks. God, _he_ sucks.

When he finally shows his face at breakfast, everything stops. Everyone looks up expectantly when he opens the door, and instead of just Joe and Kevin it's everyone, everyone watching him sadly.

Kevin pulls out the chair next to him, silently passes Nick a plate of eggs. He eats even though he's not hungry anymore. When he's finished, Mom says, "Frankie, why don't you go watch some TV in Joesph's room?" Frankie shrugs and pushes away from the table.

"I hope you feel better, Nick," he says, patting Nick's shoulder as he walks by. Yeah, Nick only feels worse. Frankie shuts the door behind him and Nick sinks lower into his chair.

"Oh, Nicholas," Mom says and that's all it takes. She sounds so _sad_ and Dad doesn't look angry so much as upset and Nick can't deal with it, he just starts to shut down. He hears them say how disappointed they are, where did he get it? Why? How long? but all Nick can do is stare across the table at Joe. Joe who still can't even look at him. Nick wants to throw up.

"Was it worth it?" Mom asks, her voice laced with tears and something sharper that cuts through Nick's fog. He always thought that if someone asked him he'd say yeah, it was. It made me happier, better. It made me like music again. But Mom asks and Joe looks up then, looks right at Nick for the first time since the bathroom last night. He's pale. His lips are thin, his eyes wide. He's holding his breath. "Was it even worth it?" Mom asks again, quieter this time. They're all waiting for him to answer. Joe bites the inside of his cheek and something inside Nick feels like it's shattering beyond repair.

Nick shakes his head no and Joe closes his eyes. "I'm sorry," he tries to say, but no sound comes out. Kevin rests his hand on Nick's back while Dad says something about rehab and Nick doesn't have the energy to defend himself, to tell them they're blowing things way out of proportion. He doesn't have the energy to say anything at all. All he can do is stare at Joe. He tries not to cry.


End file.
